Shadows of an Angel
by Blissfully Delirious
Summary: ON HOLD Harry is rescued from his abusive family and finds solace in the most unlikely of places. But he isn't the only one with shadows. Can they find it in themselves to find salvation in each other? Or will they let the shadows consume them?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Welcome to another story, lovies! Yes, I've gone and chosen yet another overdone HP theme: abused Harry. But just like my veela fic I'm hoping to be somewhat original here (although that'll probably prove a bit more difficult with this story than with SSoG). **

**Anyway,**** just a few notes before you begin: (1) this will be a slash story (if that offends you, hit the back button now); (2) this will also be a Severitus story (i.e. Snape as a father figure to both Harry and Draco); (3) this will be a slightly dark story (but as is my style, the angst will be broken up by moments of humor); (4) characters are likely to be somewhat OOC (so be prepared). I have also disregarded books 6 & 7 and consider this story to be slightly AU.**

**Okay. Now that the obligatory warnings are out of the way, on to notes about the chapter. There are mentions of abuse in this chapter. Nothing graphic but it's there. Again, if this bothers you DON'T READ IT! Don't you dare flame me for it because you have been warned. That said, please enjoy the story and please review!!**

Shadows of an Angel—Chapter One

_In the quaint little town of Little Whinging, in a perfectly ordinary house on a perfectly ordinary street, a boy lay sleeping in his tiny room. Number 4 Privet Drive was a perfectly normal home, thank you very much, and the Dursleys were a perfectly normal family…_

"Boy! Get up! Now!"

Harry woke at the sound of locks being undone, echoing his uncle's heavy rapping on the door.

Oh, yes. The Dursleys were a perfectly normal family hiding a perfectly peculiar boy.

"Up!" Vernon bellowed. "Up or you'll feel the back of my hand, freak!"

Groaning, Harry rolled onto his back, rummaging around the bedside table for his glasses. Pushing off his sheets, he swung his feet to the floor and stretched his aching muscles. The tender skin around his shoulder blades throbbed painfully. He touched his bruised lip and winced.

"You had better be up!" Vernon warned, pounding on the door.

"I'm coming!" Harry called back. "I'll be right down."

Dressed in clothing several sizes too big, Harry padded out of his room and onto the landing, descending the stairs with care, hoping not to aggravate his fractured ankle. Crossing through the hall, he glimpsed Dudley folded up in front of the television laughing at pointless cartoons.

In the kitchen, Petunia was setting out plates. "Get to work," she ordered sourly. "And don't you dare burn anything."

Harry sighed, picking up the spatula. "Yes, aunt Petunia."

The staircase creaked beneath the weight of lumbering steps and Harry stiffened as his uncle's large form stepped through the doorway. "Hurry up, boy!"

"Coming, uncle Vernon." Lifting the pan off of the stove, drawing in a sharp breath as his bruised ribs protested the sudden movement, Harry dutifully served his relatives.

Dudley waddled into the kitchen with a sneer, 'accidentally' bumping against Harry, ignoring his hiss of pain.

Curling his lip disgustedly, Vernon said, "Clean up that mess, boy, and I might let you have our scraps."

Harry bit hard on his tongue to silence his bitter retort, knowing it would serve only to earn him another beating. Instead, he turned to the sink with a scowl and started scrubbing.

The scent of burning oil caught his attention. Whirling around with a silent curse, he reached out to pull the sizzling skillet away from the fire…and the cast iron handle seared into his palm. "_Fuck!_" he swore, the skillet crashing to the floor.

"Damnit, boy!" Vernon roared.

Harry dropped to his knees with a wet cloth, mopping up the spilled grease and trying to ignore the near unbearable sting of burned flesh.

Dudley snickered at his obvious pain.

"Wanker," Harry muttered, standing to rinse out the soiled cloth.

Vernon frowned. "What was that, boy?"

"Nothing, uncle Vernon."

"Look at me, freak."

Harry turned, and was struck viciously across the cheek. "How dare you show such disrespect!"

Blood trickled from his nose, a wash of dizziness and nausea staggering him. "I'm sorry, uncle Vernon."

A brutal, meaty hand yanked Harry up by the collar, hauling him out of the kitchen. "Worthless whelp. I'll teach you _sorry_."

Being tossed into the cupboard under the stairs, his body falling uselessly limp, was the last thing Harry remembered before darkness overwhelmed him.

* * *

_They were standing in a dark and overgrown graveyard; the black outline of a church was visible beyond a large yew tree to their right. A hill rose above them to their left. Harry could just make out the outline of a fine old house on the hillside._

_Squinting tensely through the darkness, they watched a figure drawing nearer, walking steadily toward them between the graves. Harry couldn't make out a face, but whoever it was, he was short, and wearing a hooded cloak pulled up over his head to obscure his face._

_The figure stopped beside a towering marble headstone, only six feet from them. And then, without warning, Harry's scar exploded with pain. It was agony such as he had never felt in all his life. His knees buckled; he was on the ground and he could see nothing at all; his head was about to split open._

_From far away, above his head, he heard a high, cold voice say, "Kill the spare."_

_A swishing noise and a second voice, which screeched the words into the night: "Avada Kedavra!"_

_A blast of green light blazed through Harry's eyelids and he heard something heavy fall to the ground beside him. Terrified of what he was about to see, he opened his stinging eyes._

_Cedric was lying spread-eagle on the ground beside him. He was dead._

* * *

Harry woke with a strangled cry, tears streaming down his cheeks. His body thrummed with a constant pain, his scar a constant ache. Hunger gnawed at his stomach. He'd lost count of the days since he'd last tasted food or water, last glimpsed the world outside his cold, dark cupboard, last slept without the horrors of nightmares that tore him apart piece by piece.

Breathing had become an agony in itself, and the blood he'd begun to cough up left his mouth with a bitter taste.

He found sanctuary in the endless depths of oblivion, swimming the black waters of unconsciousness and embracing the sweet inertia it offered. Numbness had become his salvation. Lethargy his answered prayer.

But there would be no deliverance for his tortured soul, no divine intervention, no acts of redemption. He had been condemned to a purgatory of familial perversion…

"…letter from _those people._"

"…mention when…"

"Asking after…"

"…take him away?"

"Some rubbish…wards…"

"…stuck with him?"

Ever and again, when he had sentience enough to allow, Harry wondered why the Order hadn't yet sent someone to check on him. It had been weeks since his last missive, despite the Order's explicit instruction that he write weekly. Were they worried? Did they care at all?

Dark thoughts arose in answer to such questions. Perhaps they were all too aware of his present condition and were simply overlooking it. So long as Harry remained at Number 4 Privet Drive, he was protected from Voldemort by the blood coursing through Petunia's veins. But at what cost? How much of his innocence, his sanity, was the Order willing to sacrifice for the Greater Good?

Feverish and trembling, Harry lay in his darkened cupboard waiting for another day, his brow slick with perspiration, his lips chapped and raw, his lungs aching with every breath. The trappings of death were hung upon the gallows of his fate.

"Dudders dear, would you answer the door?"

Heavy footsteps waddled forward a few paces. The doorknob creaked. A cool breeze swept inside. Teetering at the edge of consciousness, thoughts swimming through shrouded delirium, Harry listened to the drawl of a distantly familiar voice.

"Is this the Dursley residence?"

"Yeah."

"I'm here for Potter."

There was a pause and Harry imagined he heard a soft, strangled breath. "Dad?"

A newspaper crumbled, followed by a gruff voice. "Who is it, Dudley?"

"There's a man here asking about Harry."

Vernon rose to his feet, newspaper fluttering to the empty chair. Petunia coughed gently, spoke softly to her husband. Vernon scowled. "What do you want?"

Slipping ever further towards the promise of unconsciousness, Harry could hear the callous disregard in that satiny voice. "Concerns have arisen regarding Potter's wellbeing. I have been sent to evaluate his care. If you don't mind…"

"Who are you?"

"One of his professors."

Vernon was frowning. He did so at the mention of anything remotely magical. But there was something else. Harry caught a sudden…hesitation in his uncle's voice.

_Oh, yes,_ Harry thought weakly. _You should fear what they'll do to you if they find out what you've done to me._

"So you're one of _those people, _are you?"

The front door was still open, a soft stream of sunlight curling under the cupboard door. Harry felt the warmth of it touch the tips of his toes, coiling up and around his battered body.

He coughed, his body seizing fitfully.

A tense silence, and then, "May I come in?"

"No," Vernon replied stiffly, the slightest of quivers in his voice. "The boy's not here. Goodbye."

"I insist." The door swung open once more, footsteps crossing the threshold. "Now. Where is he?"

"How dare you! Get out of my house this instant!"

Silence. Cold, thick silence. "Do not make me ask you again."

Shadows crept over Harry's vision, his eyes falling shut of their own accord. He was slipping—slipping somewhere poisoned by darkness and death. His breath began to still, the pain rippling through his limbs going numb. Everything was slowly slipping. Slipping…

A hand on the cupboard latch. A panicked voice.

Vernon was bellowing. Petunia was shrieking. Dudley was strangely silent. And then the cupboard door opened, a river of light pouring inside.

"Merlin," breathed in horrified disbelief.

"Get _away_ from there! What do you—"

A dark voice growled dangerously. "What have you done to him?"

Vernon sniffed defiantly. "Nothing the little freak didn't deserve."

"Trust me, Dursley. You too will get exactly what you deserve."

A warm hand pressed against Harry's brow, arms wrapping around his dying body. "Potter? Open your eyes. Look at me, Harry."

He heard only whispers as he slipped ever further into his shadowy chasm. Slipped down until he heard nothing at all.

* * *

Draco woke abruptly, a flaring pain coursing through his abdomen. Tears brimmed in his tightly closed eyes as he drew a long, shuddering breath.

Silently cursing his father, he opened his eyes. Lucius was the sole reason he was lying abed in the hospital wing at Hogwarts, the sole reason for every bruise on his body.

Retuning to the Manor after a day spent trolling Diagon Alley, Draco had been shocked to find his father waiting for him. He should have been rotting in an Azkaban cell, but with the Dementors returned to Voldemort's ranks, escape proved laughably easy for Lucius Malfoy.

"It's time," his father said. "Time you take your place at my side."

_You mean time to kiss the feet of that maniac_, Draco thought, and to his own horrified surprise, he laughed. "Look at yourself, father. Look at what you've become. The faithful lapdog of a psychopath."

The last thing he saw before darkness swallowed him whole was his father standing over him, wand pointed at his heart.

"How are you feeling, dear?"

Draco blinked, looked up. Madame Pomfrey smiled down at him. _How was he feeling_? "Just lovely, thanks," he replied caustically. "Maybe next time we'll try severing limbs."

Poppy frowned, but said nothing. Setting a tray on the bedside table, she handed him an opaque vile. "Drink this, then eat."

Draco swallowed obediently, shuddering at the taste. "God, that's awful."

"Medicine is not meant to taste pleasant, Mr. Malfoy. Now stop being querulous and eat your breakfast."

"I'm not hungry."

"Eat, or you'll not be allowed outside."

Draco scowled, picking up the fork. "This is blackmail."

Fretting about, fluffing his pillow and checking his vitals, she smiled warmly at him. "It's for your own good, dear. Now eat up. I'll be back in a bit to check on you."

Draco sighed and took a bite.

Lucius had never struck him before. He was sole heir to the Malfoy legacy and, despite his father's constant disappointment, he had never once raised a hand to Draco. Until he refused the Dark Mark.

Pureblood or not, Draco had never believed in Voldemort's psychotic obsession with cleansing the wizarding world of muggle blood. He was hardly about to go out and hug a mudblood, but the genocide of an entire people? That was insanity. And Draco Malfoy refused to kiss the feet of a megalomaniac.

"_Poppy_!"

Draco looked up as Snape charged into the hospital, carrying what appeared to be a body in his arms. Curiously, he watched his godfather lay the person down with uncharacteristic gentleness.

From her office, Madame Pomfrey hollered reprovingly, "What on earth is the emergency, Severus?"

"It's Potter."

Poppy came bustling out. She took one look at Harry and paled horribly. "Good lord," she gasped. "What happened?"

Snape sneered coldly, dark eyes flashing dangerously at the memory. "Those _muggles_ were keeping him locked in a cupboard."

"A cupboard? That's monstrous."

Stepping away from the bed, giving her room to move about, Snape looked Harry over with his usual guarded expression. "I agree."

Removing his clothing with great care, muttering spells under her breath, Poppy asked, "Was he conscious when you found him?"

"No."

"He's having difficulty breathing," she said, casting another spell.

Draco watched from his bed as Madame Pomfrey work furiously to heal and soothe Harry's battered body. He was horrified by the sight of his nemesis, the Golden Boy of Gryffindor, lying unconscious, his malnourished body latticed with scars and bruising. Like everyone else, Draco had always assumed that Harry was worshipped by his family.

Seeing him now, so close to death he could taste it, Draco felt horribly nauseous. No one deserved that sort of cruelty.

The sky had darkened by the time Poppy finally straightened and stepped away from the bed.

Hearing her sigh, Snape looked up. "How is he?"

"Not good, I'm afraid," she replied softly. "Severus, he has tissue scarring several years old from injuries that were never properly healed. Bones in his wrists show evidence of repeated, unattended fractures and the bruising around his ribs indicates a long history of reoccurring breaks. He had burn scars and poorly healed lacerations on his palms and along his thighs and back.

"At the moment," she sighed heavily. "He's suffering three broken ribs, a fractured ankle, concussion, burns to his right hand, bruising along his jaw, and lacerations to his back likely caused by a whip of some sort, probably a belt. I've diagnosed him with pleurisy, pneumonia and severe malnutrition."

"He'll recover?"

"Yes, but…"

Snape frowned. "What is it, Poppy?"

She hesitated, her voice a whispered reply. "I fear he's been raped, Severus."

**TBC**

**A/N: The **_**italics**_** in this chapter were an excerpt from GoF (if you hadn't already guessed). Okay. So what did you think? I'll tell you upfront that neither Vernon nor Dudley are responsible for Harry's rape. While I'm not particularly fond of the Dursley's, I just can't picture them going that far in their abuse. That said, please review! I'd love to hear from you.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Another short chapter, lovies. Sorry. But technically speaking we're still in the "setting up" phase of the story—proceeding chapters should be longer and more in depth. Anyway. Lots of dialogue in this chapter; some bickering between Snape and Pomfrey; and a brief interaction between Harry and Draco. Don't forget to review!**

Shadows of an Angel—Chapter Two

The skeletons haunting the closet of Severus Snape were such that he would never wish them upon his most loathed of enemies: torture, blood, murder. He had become numb to it all—the pain, the screams, the death. But the mere thought of such heinous mistreatment of a child churned his stomach. A child who was defenseless and helpless against the vile sacrilege imposed upon his body. Sacrilege inflicted by his family, his blood. It was barbaric and horrifying.

So like a dark angel, plagued by the shadows of an unforgivable past, he watched over Harry, who lay pale and fragile, his breath shallow and agonized. How many days had it been? Four? Five? How long since Harry had surrendered to the unrelenting grips of unconsciousness?

Madame Pomfrey worried that perhaps he didn't _want_ to wake, that the comforts of oblivion proved too sweet a promise. After all, his physical wounds had all been healed. There was nothing keeping him in his coma expect his own desire to remain asleep. Not that she blamed him. Why suffer the torments of wakefulness when you can escape into a world where nothing exists at all?

"There must be something you can do," Snape demanded, pacing the floor of Poppy's small office.

"I'm sorry Severus, but there is nothing I can do," she replied softly. "It's in his own hands now. Harry will wake if and when he chooses."

Snape paused, dark eyes falling on Harry's prone form, on his hollow cheeks and the ragged rise and fall of his chest. _Six days_, he thought. "That's not good enough," he growled

Poppy placed a comforting hand on his arm, her pale-blue eyes brimming with worry and regret. "I know," she murmured. "But I'm afraid it has to be."

"There must be something we can do, Poppy."

"Sit with him," she said. "Talk to him. Let him know that there is someone here who cares."

Snape snorted wryly, arching a dark brow. "I'm hardly a comforting figure to the boy."

Poppy smiled and patted his arm. "Perhaps not," she agreed. "But you can still offer comfort. He needs to feel safe Severus, and for all your faults you have always tried to protect him. He knows that and he may respond to it."

"You know I'm not a man prone to soft emotions."

"I'm not asking you to be," she said. "Just sit with him. That's all."

Snape sighed, an unfamiliar twist of emotion piercing his heart. "Very well."

* * *

_Uncle Vernon raised a meaty fist, a savage gleam in his dark eyes. Harry flinched away, his small, malnourished body trembling fitfully, too-thin arms wrapped helplessly around his head. Hot tears spilled down his pale cheeks but Harry made no sound, bottom lip caught painfully between his teeth to silence his sobs. Crying was for weaklings and queers, and Uncle Vernon tolerated neither._

"_Quit your blubbering, boy, or I'll give you something to cry about."_

"_S-s-sorry, Uncle Ver-Vernon," he stuttered pitifully, dragging the back of his hand across his eyes. His glasses lay broken and discarded across the room. The cold linoleum floor bruised his poor, bony knees and a leg of the toppled chair behind him pressed sharply against his spine. _

_Uncle Vernon didn't like that he was a wizard now, a freak. He didn't like that Harry had brought that dangerous nonsense into his house. He thought the best thing to do was to try and beat the magic right out of his worthless whelp of nephew._

_Harry cried out as Uncle Vernon struck him hard across the face. He heard the soft sound of breaking cartilage and tasted the warm dribble of blood. His ears rung as his head smacked into the refrigerator door._

"_What'd I tell you about that sniveling!" Uncle Vernon roared, slapping Harry across the other cheek. Harry's teeth clacked together with bone jarring force, his tiny form stumbling into the fallen chair; one of the legs dug into his ribcage and snapped with a slow _crack

"_P-please," Harry gasped, an agonizing twinge shooting through his chest. "I'm, I'm sor-sorry."_

"_Sorry?" Uncle Vernon mocked viciously, lifting Harry up by the collar. "I'll teach you sorry."_

* * *

"Hold him down, Severus!" Poppy ordered, struggling to pour the bright yellow potion down Harry's throat as the boy thrashed about wildly on the bed. 

Snape lost his grip for a second and received a nasty blow across the cheek. Cursing viciously under his breath, he grabbed Harry's flaying arm and pressed it down hard into the mattress. "Damnit, Poppy! Give him the damn potion!"

"I'm trying!" she snapped, gripping Harry by the chin and prying open his mouth. He coughed and spluttered but managed to swallow most of it. After a few moments his thrashing calmed, his body falling limp as the potion took effect.

"What the hell was _that_?" Snape growled, touching his bruising cheek with a scowl.

Poppy shrugged, smoothing the hair away from Harry's face. "Nightmare."

"Is he awake, then?"

"Not yet," she said. "But if those dreams are any indication his sleep is no longer the peaceful sanctuary he'd hoped. It could be an hour. It could be three days."

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. "I cannot sit at the boy's side for three days, Poppy. I have obligations."

Madame Pomfrey gripped his chin and turned his head to the side, ignoring his dark look. "Oh, hold still," she chided, dabbing his cheek with a wet cloth. "I'm afraid I can't either," she sighed. "I'll be inventorying my stores all day. Perhaps Albus could sit with him," she offered, spreading a healing salve over the purpling skin.

"He's meeting with Order members all week."

"That's right, I'd forgotten," she murmured, wiping her hands on a dry towel. "Well there must be someone who can sit with him," she said with slight exasperation. "He shouldn't be alone right now."

"I'm afraid there's no one else."

"I'll sit with him."

They both turned, startled. Draco was leaning against the nearest bed looking uncharacteristically sallow and fragile. His white-blond hair was unwashed and unkempt, his clothing rumpled and entirely unattractive. He had a mild frown on his face, something like hesitant determination and curiosity in his silver-grey eyes.

"Mr. Malfoy," Poppy admonished. "You're not to be up and about. Back to bed this instant."

"I'll sit with him," he said again. "With Potter."

"Nonsense," the matron scoffed. "You'll get back to bed, that's what you'll do."

Draco scowled. "No, I won't. Someone needs to sit with him and I'm more than willing."

Poppy frowned in return. "Yes, well. Willing or no you're still not entirely healed. What you need is bed rest."

"I'll get rest enough sitting here next to Potter," he argued, motioning toward Harry's limp form. "I doubt he'll be much trouble."

"And if he has another nightmare?" Poppy countered stubbornly, hands resting firmly on her hips. "You're still weak, Mr. Malfoy. You could be injured."

"Good thing I'm in the hospital then, isn't it?"

Madam Pomfrey pursed her lips, eyes narrowed shrewdly.

Snape sighed, stepping forward. "Let the boy stay, Poppy. If Potter wakes you'll be just down the hall."

"Very well," she said in a less-than-encouraging manner. "But I want you to call me if there's the slightest indication he's waking."

"Of course," Draco replied charmingly.

Poppy sniffed, still frowning. "I'll check on you in a few hours."

As she disappeared back into her office, Draco turned to Snape with a roll of his eyes. "That woman is stubborn as a rock," he said.

Snape lifted a wry eyebrow. "And you're so terribly acquiescent."

"Yes, but I'm a Malfoy," he replied, as though that explained everything—and it did.

Snape pushed aside the urge to make a snide remark. Draco was indeed the epitome of _Malfoy_, as that little display with Poppy had proved. "How are you feeling?" he asked instead.

Draco's face darkened. "Bloody fantastic, thanks," he snarked. "Nothing like being tortured by your father to make you feel like a million galleons."

"You know that if you ever need to talk—"

"No," Draco snapped, flinching away from Snape's touch—and felt immediately guilty. "I'm sorry, Severus," he sighed contritely. "Thank you for the offer but…I'm just not ready to talk about it yet."

"Of course. I understand," Snape replied, masking his emotions. He was hurt by Draco's recession and furious at the thought of what Lucius had done to his own son. It was disgusting. "I'll check on you later this evening."

Draco nodded, lowering himself carefully into the chair at Harry's bedside. "Hey, Potter," he said softly, awkwardly, sweeping his gaze over Harry's battered body. "You look like hell, by the way," he added dryly. "Not that you care, I'm sure. What with you being unconscious and all."

It was strange, but Draco felt suddenly very drawn to Harry, very…kindred. Which really wasn't all that strange at all. For years he'd been just another student blinded by the fame of the Boy Who Lived. Of course Harry Potter was a prince in his own home, worshipped by his muggle relatives and denied nothing. Like everyone else he'd failed to notice that Harry returned each year a little thinner, a little more withdrawn, a little more broken. Seeing him now, beaten and half-starved, struggling to avoid the harsh realities of wakefulness, Draco felt a strong sense of protectiveness. Like a twisted angel sitting watch over one of the fallen.

"I thought my home life was bad," Draco murmured. "But I'd take being degraded and ignored over daily beatings any day. Why didn't you fight back?" he asked. "Why would you let them treat you like this? You're a wizard, aren't you? The sodding Boy Who Lived. Defeater of the Dark Lord. You should have fought back," he said with a sneer. "You should have _told_ someone. Why would you keep this a secret?"

It was utterly contradictory. Here, at Hogwarts, Harry had always been the defender of the innocent and first to point out the slightest of inequities. He threw himself headlong into the fray, heedless of the consequences or the danger, simply because it was the _right thing to do_. He was never one to sit back and allow the injustices of the world to go unchallenged. And yet he allowed _this_ to happen to him; allowed his family to treat him so horribly for so long. Why? It made no sense at all. Did he fear the repercussions? Fear being stripped of his wand for using magic outside of school? Draco scoffed. The Ministry would have forgiven him once they saw the way their precious Savoir was being treated.

"Pomfrey says you might not wake up. She says your trying to avoid the reality of what happened to you. I can't say I blame you," Draco admitted. "I'd probably want to hide, too, if I'd been…" he trailed off, a nervous twist in his belly. "Is it true?" he asked in a horror-filled whisper. "Were you really…? Was it your family? Merlin, I hope not. But even if it wasn't they still let it happen and that's just…that's just _horrible_."

Draco couldn't imagine the horrors of being raped; didn't _want_ to imagine them. It was beyond heinous. And if Harry's family had _known_ what was going on and had done nothing than it was beyond forgiveness. Harry was their blood, their responsibility, and to be so blatantly neglectful was reprehensible. For the first time in his life Draco was actually _grateful_ for his parents' treatment of him—he'd been generally ignored and occasionally belittled, but he'd never been beaten (never once been slapped or cuffed or spanked). Not until the day he refused his "legacy."

"Father wasn't pleased with me when I refused the Dark Mark. I suppose mocking him didn't help any," Draco remarked dryly. "You'd probably be shocked to know that I never wanted to be a Death Eater. I didn't. Not after I learned what he was planning. Muggle genocide?" he sneered. "No thank you. Not that I'm pro-mudblood, mind you. I just don't think the senseless murder of tens of thousands is the best way to go about proclaiming wizard supremacy. I mean, we're already superior, aren't we? What's the point in butchering half the world to prove it?"

"You're a pompous ass, Malfoy."

Draco jumped at the sound of that dry, raspy voice, very nearly shrieking like a startled schoolgirl. Wide, silver-grey eyes met green. Harry looked up at him with a placid expression, soft amusement in his eyes. "You…" Draco scowled. "How long have you been awake?"

"Not long," he rasped, coughing fitfully. "How long have you been sitting there?"

Draco shrugged. "A while."

"And _why_ are you sitting there?"

"Pomfrey said you needed someone to sit with you."

Harry just looked at him, a slight frown pinching his brow. "Where…?"

Seeing his confusion, the childlike fear in his eyes, Draco's face softened. "You're at Hogwarts," he said. "In the hospital ward."

"How did…" Harry blinked, a single tear slipping down his cheek. "I don't understand. Wh-what happened?"

"You don't remember? Snape found you. I don't know what happened."

"Mr. Malfoy!" Madam Pomfrey stormed into the room with a furious look on her face. "I told you to inform me the moment he woke," she scolded, leaning over Harry with a soft smile. "How are you feeling, dear?"

Harry winced, a painful twinge in his chest. "Not good," he replied.

Poppy nodded, brushing the hair from his eyes. "Where does it hurt?"

A frail, half-hearted smile crossed Harry's face. "Where doesn't it?"

Poppy selected a number of vials from the bedside table and held them out. "Drink these," she instructed. "They'll lessen the pain and help you sleep."

"I don't want to sleep."

"Of course you don't, but you will anyway," Poppy replied matter-of-factly. "You've been through a terrible ordeal. Your body needs to rest."

Harry looked down, picking at his blanket. "Do I have to?" he asked sullenly. "The dreams…"

Poppy's expression softened as she plucked another vial from her tray. "Dreamless Sleep," she said. "Now drink up."

* * *

"Medically speaking, he's doing well," Poppy said. "A few more days and he'll be fit to leave. Emotionally, however…" She paused, shaking her head. "I'm worried, Severus. He appears to have repressed much of his memory of these past few weeks. He's emotionally unstable. I'm afraid he may prove a danger to himself." 

Snape frowned. "What are you suggesting? That he remain here in the hospital?"

"Don't be silly," Poppy replied. "A hospital ward is not an environment conducive to emotional recovery. I was thinking more along the lines of your quarters," she said. "I thought that with Mr. Malfoy staying with you as well—"

"Poppy, you are aware that Potter detests both myself and Draco, yes?"

"He needs supervision, Severus."

"So have him stay with Albus."

Poppy clucked her tongue disapprovingly. "You know as well as I do that Albus pops in and out of here all summer long. Harry needs stability right now."

"I don't think—"

"I've spoken to the Headmaster," she said. "It's already been arranged. His things should be arriving in your quarters shortly."

Snape scowled. It wasn't that he didn't want to help Harry, because he did—it was that he doubted whether living in close quarters with the two people he loathed most could be considered "an environment conducive to emotional recovery." It was unlikely. But Dumbledore had spoken, and once the Headmaster was decided on something it was near impossible to change his mind. _What are you scheming, old man?_

"He should be fit to move by tomorrow morning," Poppy said.

Snape sighed, resigned. "Very well, Poppy. I'll make the proper arrangements."

**TBC**

**A/N: For those of you who don't know already, I'll be in Denver for the rest of the month and since I don't know what kind of internet access I'll have, updates may not be as frequent. I will certainly try and update as often as possible, but I can't promise anything. Now that that's out of the way, please review and give me your thoughts!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Oh, my. It is **_**so**_** good to be back. I apologize for not updating sooner, but I just didn't have the time while I was in Denver. I hope you aren't angry with me, lovies. Oh, and before I forget—I wanted to clear any timeline confusion you might have. The story starts off the summer after fifth year but Harry's flashbacks/memories will sort of be all over the place (and years/ages won't necessarily be made clear). Does that make sense? If not please let me know.**

**About the chapter now. It's still mainly Harry-centric but future chapters will address both Draco's and Snape's **_**shadows**_**. Harry is also a bit, well, "unsound" in this chapter (just to warn you). I think that about covers it, so read on and enjoy! And please review!**

Shadows of an Angel—Chapter Three

_The house was quiet. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had taken Dudley to the zoo, leaving Harry at home with a list of chores: clean the dishes, vacuum the carpets, scrub the kitchen floor, wash the sheets, dust the furniture, prune the garden, mow the yard…_

_Harry liked working in the garden. It was the one thing at number 4 Privet Drive that he could call his own. He had planted every seed, tended every flower. His blood and sweat and tears had gone in to cultivating that garden, the loveliest garden in the neighborhood. Harry was proud of his floral masterpiece, even if Aunt Petunia did take all the credit herself._

_The afternoon sun hung high, its warm rays bathing the back of Harry's neck. Privet Drive was silent but for the muffled yapping of the Edmunds' bull terrier and the occasional twill of a passing bird. It was a beautiful summer weekend. No one was home. Families were all out enjoying the day._

_Harry sat back on his heels, squinting up at the clear, blue sky. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. The Dursleys wouldn't be home for a few hours yet. Plenty of time to clean himself up and take advantage of the empty house before he needed to get supper ready._

"_Hey there, Potty Head," a voice sneered from behind him._

_Harry stiffened, forcing down the instinctive panic as he turned around slowly. "Dudley's not here," he said, proud of himself for sounding so boldly defiant._

_Nelson Snidal laughed nastily, a cold glint in his mud-colored eyes. "But I'm here to see you," he replied, crossing the yard with hands tucked casually in his pockets, an arrogant swagger to his steps. Nelson was two years older than Harry and Dudley's bullying idol._

"_What do you want?" Harry asked with a shaky voice, stumbling backward as Nelson stalked closer._

"_I haven't seen you in a while. Thought I'd stop by and see how you were," Nelson said with a malicious grin._

_Harry reached for the doorknob, his palm sweaty and trembling. The last time Nelson had "stopped by" he'd broken Harry's nose and fractured a rib._

"_Inviting me in?" Nelson smirked, jumping onto the porch with all the grace of a deadly predator. "How kind."_

"_I—"_

"_No need to be shy, Potter." Nelson forced Harry into the house, locking the door behind him. "I've been waiting a long time to get you alone."_

_Harry's heart was pounding in his chest. This was wrong. Nelson was an exhibitionist. He liked to be watched while he beat his victims senseless. Why would he wait till Harry was alone in the house?_

"_What do you want?"_

"_What are you now?" Nelson asked, ignoring Harry's question. "Eleven? Twelve?"_

_Harry swallowed. "Fourteen."_

_Nelson frowned, casting his gaze over Harry's too-thin frame. "Scrawny thing, aren't you? No matter," he shrugged. "Doesn't really matter how old you are."_

_Scrounging up every last drop of Gryffindor courage he could find, Harry squared his shoulders and said, "You have to leave, Nelson. The Dursleys will be home any minute."_

_Nelson only smiled, that cold glint returned to his dirt-colored eyes. "Nice try. But it's hardly a quarter past three. The Dursleys won't be home till at least five thirty, which means I have you all to myself for a good two hours."_

_He was trapped. "What do you want?"_

"_You know," Nelson replied thoughtfully. "I never noticed before but you're a rather attractive bloke, Potter. Much too skinny, of course, but still surprisingly easy on the eyes."_

_Harry felt his blood run cold. He didn't like that look in Nelson's eye or the way Nelson had him pinned against the back of the couch. Something was very, very wrong here. He thought about pushing Nelson away—but what if he broke something? He thought about using magic—but what if the Ministry found out? He wasn't strong enough to fight back and was too afraid to try. Uncle Vernon would skin his hide if he broke something or bruised one of Dudley's friends. The Ministry would take away his wand and expel him from Hogwarts if he used magic. So he just stood there, waiting and terrified._

"_Not even gonna try and fight me?" Nelson asked, a slight curl to his lips. "Good boy. Now take off your clothes."_

_Harry flinched, eyes wide. "What?"_

"_You're filthy," Nelson replied reasonably. "You need a shower."_

"_I'm fine, thanks," Harry said with a trembling voice._

_Nelson scowled. "Don't make me get nasty, Potter. Take them off yourself or I'll do it for you."_

_Harry shook his head, his cold terror giving rise to a sudden spark of self-preservation. He'd swallowed a lot of abuse over the years but what Nelson was implying… "No," he said. "I won't let you."_

"_Won't let me what?" Nelson asked, placing his arms on either side of Harry. "I wasn't aware I'd given you a choice."_

"_I said no, Nelson. Now get out."_

"_It doesn't work that way, Potter. I came here for something and I'm not leaving till I get it."_

_Harry stared at him, panic threading through his veins. "You can't."_

_Nelson grinned dangerously. "Trust me. I can."_

* * *

Harry pressed himself further into the corner, eyes red and swollen, his bottom lip chewed raw and bleeding. His body ached. His veins burned like fire beneath his skin yet his teeth chattered. A hundred terrible visions flashed through his mind and he flinched at every one.

He had stopped sleeping because of the nightmares. He had stopped eating because the thought of food made him sick. He hadn't left his room in days nor uttered a single word to anyone. He had turned away every visitor, refusing even to open the door. He had withdrawn completely and no one seemed to know how to help him.

There was a knock at the door. Harry froze, arms wrapped tightly around his legs. If he pretended to be asleep they'd go away. They always went away. _Please,_ he thought desperately, miserably. _Please just go away._ His fingernails, blunt and ragged, bit sharply into his palms. The pain distracted him from the terrible memories knifing his heart.

The knock sounded again, harder this time, sharper. Harry squeezed his eyes shut. The stone wall pressed awkwardly against his spine but he refused to move; refused to shift his tired, aching body in search of comfort. He didn't deserve comfort.

"Potter, open the door." A voice rough with irritation, thick with impatience.

Harry twitched, his hand suddenly itching with the urge to grasp that cold handle, to open the door as told, to let him in…He curled his fists tighter, felt the skin tear. "No one in," he muttered softly. No one to see how far he had fallen.

"_Alohomora!"_ The door quivered on its hinges but remained firmly shut. "Damnit, Potter. If you make me knock down my own door…"

"Let me try." Another voice, this one soft with arrogance and cool assuredness. "Potter. Get off your useless, whiny ass and open this door."

Harry felt a scowl darken he features. He knew that challenging tone, that condescending drawl—and it set his blood boiling. "Malfoy."

Feet shifted outside the door, a note of smugness in his voice as Draco replied, "What was that? I couldn't quite hear you through this ridiculous cloud of self-flagellation you've churned up."

A growl rose up in Harry's throat, a wash of icy emotion flooding his system. How long had it been since he'd felt anything but pain and fear? This new emotion felt heavy in his chest—familiar somehow but still so terribly awkward. He wanted to balk at that lordly tone; wanted to snarl and rage and fight back with everything he had. But that would mean letting someone in, letting someone see how wretched and weak he had become. And he would never do that. What he suffered, he suffered alone. He had to. How could he, in good conscience, ever subject someone else to horrors of his life?

But that voice…

"You're being pathetic, Potter. Locking yourself in a room for days on end isn't going to solve anything. Neither is starving yourself for that matter."

The door rattled again, and this time it had nothing to do with someone trying to open it.

"Now that's more like it," Draco said, his voice laced with self-satisfaction. "Perhaps there's life in there after all."

Harry reined in his rampant magic. He refused to be drawn out like this. "Go away," he croaked, his throat raw and parched.

"Why don't you make me."

"Go _away_, Malfoy."

"Open the door and I will."

_What do you want from me?_ Harry asked silently. _Why won't you just leave me alone?_

"Come now, Potter." The door creaked as Draco leaned back against it. "If you open the door I promise to leave you alone."

Harry almost laughed. What was it everyone said? _You can never trust the word of a Malfoy_. "Liar."

Draco chuckled. "You're right," he said. "I am lying. But you still need to open the door."

"Why?"

"Because you haven't bathed in a week and you're starting to smell up the place."

Harry's lips twitched with faint amusement. He relaxed his clenched fists, a tiny drop of blood rolling down his wrist. He straightened his cramped legs and shifted away from cold, stone wall. _What's the harm in a hot shower?_ he thought.

His body was stiff and sore as he crawled his way up the wall, his legs shaky beneath him. He released the wards with a wave of his wand and shuffled forward clumsily. The handle was icy beneath his hand, the door impossibly heavy.

Draco stood there with arms crossed casually over his chest. He looked pale and exhausted, a wry twist to his lips. "Welcome back."

* * *

"He's barely spoken all week, Severus. He hardly eats and, far as I can tell, he doesn't sleep either."

"I'm well aware of that, Draco," Snape replied more harshly then intended, pitch-black eyes narrowed just so as he watched Harry flip uninterestedly through the latest issue of Witch Weekly. "What would you like me to do about it?"

Draco frowned. "You can start by pulling the stick out of your ass."

Snape sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I apologize," he said. "My tone was…unwarranted."

"We're both a bit on edge," Draco conceded. "And rather out of our comfort zone, I should think."

That was an understatement. A _huge_ understatement. They were floundering in a sea of uncertainty as alien to them as muggle physics. Neither was a particularly nice person and neither had the faintest idea what to _do_ with Harry. He was slowly and silently drowning in his pain; withering in the dark shadow of memories that refused to sleep. He was gaunt and wan, his eyes haunted with ghostly melancholy. He had withdrawn entirely to a place no one else could hope to touch.

And that irritated the hell out of Snape and Draco.

They _wanted_ to reach out to Harry; _wanted_ to pull him away from those cold, dark shadows and breathe life back into the barren, lifeless shell he had become. Only, they had no clue how to do that. The concepts of compassion and kindness and gentleness were not familiar to them, nor was patience. They demanded a level of indifference and brusqueness of themselves and of everyone around them (and frowned upon those who failed to meet their expectations). But with Harry it was imperative they not push, not expect too much too soon lest they do more harm than good.

The only problem being their mirroring inclinations to sneer at the slightest display of weakness. Draco tended to taunt, ruffling feathers until he plucked just the right one, sending his prey scuttling away in a fountain of tears and humiliation. Snape tended to mock, dark eyes narrowed dangerously, scathing remarks rolling off his tongue like silk, sending his prey cowering in fear and disgrace.

Why Dumbledore considered this arrangement conducive to Harry's recovery was a mystery to them both.

"This is ridiculous," Draco muttered, combing a hand through his hair. "We're acting like sods, I'll have you know. And we're doing him no good by treating him like a porcelain doll."

Snape hummed in agreement, his expression clouded. It galled him that he was all of a sudden unable to provoke a reaction from Harry. Every sneer, every snide comment, every derisive arch of his brow—all ignored with an indifference that astounded him. Harry would merely blink at him, cool emerald eyes as hollow as a dream. It was terribly unsettling.

"He has to eat," Draco declared. "I mean…_look_ at him. I've seen skeletons with more meat of their bones."

"And how do you propose we do that, hmm? Tie him to a chair and force food down his throat?"

Draco shrugged as if to say, _Well, why not?_

Snape gave him a dry look. "Oh, yes," he drawled. "Let's traumatize the emotionally unstable wizard, shall we?"

"I don't hear you offering any brilliant ideas," Draco replied churlishly.

Snape remained silent. What stunning leaps of insight could he possibly offer? He was so far out of his depth he was drowning. His first inclination was to glower and seethe, to swear irreparable damage and threaten to take an inordinate amount of House points. But with Harry that course of action would be most…unwise. One push too many could very well send Harry tumbling over the edge—and Snape did _not_ want to find out what would happen if the Boy Wonder went cart-wheeling past the brink of insanity. Dumbledore, for one, would not be happy.

Harry coughed, drawing Snape's sharp regard. He had folded himself into the corner of the couch, legs pulled tightly to his chest, magazine lying open on the side-table. His face was pale and drawn, eyes deeply shadowed and half-lidded. He looked as if Death was riding his coattails.

Something had to be done, Snape decided. Harry could not continue to refuse to eat. It was simply unacceptable. But how to get food into him without traumatizing the poor boy?

"Draco, fetch me an Invigoration Draught, a Pepperup Potion, a Draught of Persuasion and a large empty vial."

Draco gave him an odd look but disappeared into the supply cupboard nonetheless. He reemerged a minute later with four vials, a curious arch to his brow. "What are you doing?" he asked.

Snape poured two-thirds of the Invigoration Draught into the empty vial, adding one-fourth of the Pepperup Potion and one-half of the Draught of Persuasion, shaking well. "I'm encouraging Mr. Potter not to starve himself," he replied with a viperous smirk.

The Invigoration Draught Draco understood, and even the Pepperup Potion seemed a logical choice considering Harry's poor health—but a Draught of Persuasion? That was strange. Draught of Persuasion was a powerful narcotic potion used mainly in hospitals to "encourage" stubborn, unstable patients to eat or take their potions. Its base ingredient was opium, which, combined with other ingredients, dulled a person's awareness just enough to allow Healers to feed and medicate their patients without hassle.

"You're drugging him?" Draco asked with a touch of disbelief.

"Did you have a better idea?" Snape returned, lifting the vial up to the light to ensure it was properly mixed.

"Uh…no, not really."

"Then be useful and have one of the house-elves bring up a plate of food."

Harry never so much as flinched as Snape approached him. His dull emerald eyes never flickered from the article in front of him. His breathing was still fast and shallow from the lingering traces of pneumonia Madame Pomfrey assured him would fade in time. There was a thin sheen of sweat on his neck and brow (a clear sign of a lingering fever, as well). _Stubborn brat must be feeling wretched,_ Snape thought irritably. _Damn Gryffindor pride._

Finally, Harry appeared to notice his presence. His eyes stopped scanning the tiny print. His breath caught a ragged edge. He seemed to draw into himself, that haunted look once more clouding his face.

Snape had to quell his urge to snap at the boy, to demanded he stop wallowing in a past he could no more change than he could the color of the sky. "Drink this," he said instead, his voice rough with poorly concealed impatience.

Harry blinked at him with eyes as lifeless as a corpse. He hesitated before grasping the vial. "What is it?"

"Something to help ease your fever," Snape replied (which wasn't a complete lie).

Harry stared at the vial for a moment more before swallowing the pale-yellowish liquid. He grimaced at the taste, handing the empty vial back to Snape.

Draco reappeared then, followed by a nervous-looking house-elf carrying a plate laden with food. "Set it there and go," he ordered, nodding to the coffee table. The house-elf did as instructed and vanished with a _pop!_

"Now, Potter," Snape said, noticing with satisfaction the newly-acquired flush in Harry's cheeks and the subtle spark of life in his eyes. It wouldn't last, of course. Once the potion wore off so would his sudden vitality. But it was a start. "I want you to eat."

Harry looked as though he wanted to argue, a stubborn glint in his now vibrant eyes, but the Draught of Persuasion had already begun to work its magic and instead of fighting he picked up a sandwich and ate. Though he looked none too happy about it.

"You know," Draco said. "He's going to be right pissed when that potion wears off."

"Presumably," Snape replied with a decidedly self-satisfied smirk. "But he won't be cowering in a corner, will he?"

**TBC**

**A/N: How very Slytherin of Snape, no? I hope the chapter was okay. Please review and tell me your thoughts.**


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